


Without a Spark

by voodoochild



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Drugged Sex, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-26
Updated: 2010-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:33:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Fiona take on more of a case than they can handle. Set between "Devil You Know" and "Friends and Family", while Michael is AWOL.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without a Spark

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kink_bingo, for the prompt "drugs/aphrodesiacs". Title from the Bruce Springsteen song, "Dancing in the Dark".
> 
> Warnings: Nonconsensual drug use, consensual sex. Barebacking and risky behavior as a side effect of drug-induced sex.

The room is pitch-black, but they do a thorough check for any exit points (no windows, door opens to a hallway that's guarded in an every-two-hours rotation, walls are all solid cinderblock). Fiona finds a desk, but it's completely bare, and when Sam goes over the bed and bedframe, it's bolted down. They might be able to use the sheets if they get the drop on the guards - other than that, the room is clean.

Fiona's pacing, her natural aggressive tendencies cranked up to five-hundred with the meth that's racing through her veins. She's flushed, trying not to lash out at anything - she may be high, but even Fiona knows that tearing the room up would be counterproductive. Sam can't stop thinking about the threat Ruiz had made - that they'd be watching, just to see if anyone overdosed - and he's obsessively combing over the walls and ceiling of the room, looking for bugs or cameras.

"You think they've killed her yet?" Fiona asks, referring to their client, Marisol Amarro.

Sam runs his fingers over the doorframe, finding nothing. "I don't know. I would have. She's a liability, she's airing Ruiz's dirty laundry. But the bastard actually seems to care about her. If I didn't know about the beating and the prostitution, I'd think they were a lovely couple."

Just a domestic call, Fi had said. Marisol's boyfriend was smacking her around and whoring her out; quick simple strongarm to the boyfriend to scare him off, set Marisol up with a new bank account and apartment in South Beach. Except Javier Ruiz wasn't just some dumb Cuban muscle - he was Jorge Hernandez's top enforcer, which meant Sam and Fiona just pissed off the top meth dealer in Miami.

They'd gone to Ruiz's club, bluffed their way into the back room as Chuck Finley, muscle for the Diaz family (old Pedro owes him some serious favors, so Sam had called one in and gotten carte blanche to pass himself off as a Diaz employee), and Tammy, Chuck's girlfriend (Fiona lost the bet over whether she got to go as herself or not). Everything was fine, until Marisol blew their cover - sweet girl, not too great at the whole secret-keeping thing - and they'd found themselves getting knocked out by the butts of some high-powered assault rifles that had appeared out of nowhere. They'd been shot up with some of Hernandez's best product, and had woken up in the middle of this room.

Fi had woken up first - on the bed, which the bastards had oh-so-kindly deposited her while dropping Sam on the wooden floor - and had done a fast health check and surveillance. Other than the meth racing through their veins and the knots on their heads, they're fine. They're almost certainly further inland than the club, it's cooler and there's no sea scent, which Sam can smell within a few miles.

"He's an abusive shithead," Fi says, kicking a trashcan across the room. It's clean, they've already searched it.

Abusive shithead or no, Fi's starting to worry him, and that's not something they can afford while high on meth. Sam's got a decent background in enough cover ops to know how spectacularly bad drug trips can go, and meth, besides being highly addictive even in small quantities, has the effect of enhancing whatever emotion you're feeling up to ten-thousand. Angry Fi would be _really_ bad.

He sets the trashcan back on the floor, and catches her arm as she paces past. "Hey, come on. We're going to get out of here. We're going to get Marisol into a better life. And it's only gonna take a call to Diaz to get the entire cartel to help us get some payback on Ruiz and Hernandez. Okay?"

"We're blowing their asses straight to hell? With grenades? And MP5's? "

Sam crooks a grin at her. "Sweetheart, they're going down. Soon as we get out of here, you can do whatever you want to them."

And okay, it's a little more familiar, a little more friendly than they usually are, but with Michael gone, they're it. The constant sniping and bitching had been entertaining for the first couple days, but they'd finally just agreed to work together or stay out of each other's way. It's been good so far, they've handled more than their share of tricky cases. They'd spent a week in the Keys with Maddie, practically frog-marched her down on a kind of vacation and while it was tense without Michael, it helped. Maddie's learning to cope with what they do, and Fiona and Sam are doing their best to keep money coming in.

A good twenty minutes pass. Sam's attention has turned to weapons they might be able to use. They've been searched pretty thoroughly - and he doesn't really want to think about that - because both their guns are gone, along with the safety knives (Sam keeps his in his boot, Fiona had had one in her bag). They've left Fiona a couple hairpins - none of which have worked to pick the lock on the door, which Fiona is currently trying for the tenth time - and some of the non-weapons-in-disguise type of makeup. Sam has his gold chain and watch, but not his wallet or cell phone.

So, all right. No obvious weapons. What about less-obvious ones?

He looks around - all the furniture is solid metal or plastic, nothing wooden or breakable. No furnishings besides the bed, bolted-down desk, and side bathroom. The aforementioned sheets that they could use for impromptu restraints -

Shit. This is a really bad time to be imagining Fiona tied to a bed. Even if she's begging for it half the time: mouthing off, going off-script, doing what she wants instead of what should be done. Sam knows he's a stickler for the rules, has always been the "good boy" type, and that Fi's irreverence for rules is like a good and expensive beer. It's terrible for you in the long run, but you want to savor it and overindulge no matter the cost.

"I haven't heard the guards," Fiona says from somewhere behind him. "Think they've left us alone?"

This is, of course, the cue for multiple footsteps down the hall to start moving toward them.

Sam freezes. They need to be completely nonthreatening, or the guards could very well either dose them again or simply shoot them. Unconscious or dead hostages are easier to deal with, especially when you're dealing with spies. Hernandez might have figured out he wasn't dealing with a simple enforcer and his girl. If he has, Sam knows he and Fi are done for.

He turns around, meets Fi's eyes, and she's thinking the same thing. It's good that she's locked onto the "fight" response, because it lets her launch herself at him, and he barely catches her around the waist before her mouth slants across his, hot and wet. She weighs almost nothing, and it's so easy to turn her and pin her to the wall near the door. Easier to hear the hallway that way. He expects her to fake the kiss - they've done it before, pretending or overacting a makeout session to get intel or get out of a sticky situation - but she doesn't. Fuck, she's just going for it, squirming up the wall to hook both legs around his waist and opening her mouth to him. Her hands tug at his hair, tongue sliding along his and a low moan emptying into his mouth.

He's trying to be a gentleman, only do the bare minimum of what they need to do to look busy and nonthreatening, but Christ, with the way she's squirming against him and the meth in his bloodstream, it's getting almost impossible. There's too much else to focus on. Like the noises she makes when he pulls her hair. Like how she's now at the perfect height to dip his head down and lick along the line of her collarbone like he wants to do every time she wears one of her little halter dresses.

Like how soaking wet she is once he gets her dress up around her hips.

The door opens, and neither of them look up. Much more important things to focus on, like Fiona's hips moving in tight little circles, like unlacing her dress to get his mouth on her breasts. The wail she makes when he sucks her nipple into his mouth is practically illegal, and it's very convincing for the guards, who mutter Cuban swear words at them and slam the door shut.

"Think it worked," he says, dragging his mouth away from her. "They're gone, Fi." He tries to let her go, but she's wrapped tight around him, legs around his waist, hands in his hair. When he drops his hands from her ass, she gives a disappointed little moan and that's making it very difficult as he's trying to will his dick to behave. "C'mon, Fi, we can't -"

"Oh. Yes. We. Are." She punctuates it with a thrust against him, wet panties dampening the front of his pants. "Sam, you know what meth does to your system. Monomania. I can either fuck it away or I can shoot it away, and I don't have a weapon right now. So will you just shut up and take your pants off?"

When she puts it like that . . .

"Yes, ma'am," he says, and turns to toss her onto the bed.

He barely gets his jeans unzipped and his shirt partially unbuttoned before she pulls him down to the bed with her. She's wriggled out of her dress, tossed it and her panties on the floor, and just latches onto him, up on her knees behind him. Her mouth is slick and wet, licking a path from the shell of his ear down to his neck. She runs into the collar of his shirt and doesn't appreciate it, letting out a low whine as she tries to push it from his shoulders.

"Get it off, dammit," she growls, one hand pawing down his stomach and knocking his hands away from where he'd been idly stroking himself. "Shirt off, pants off, hurry up and don't get distracted."

Fuck, he loves it when she gives orders. He pushes his jeans and boxers off, letting her rip the shirt and shove it off his shoulders. "What's the matter, Fi, too slow for you?"

"Always. You know I like it fast, and I like it hard, and I like it rough. Think you can give it to me, Sam?"

His response is to lean to the side, then sweep his arm out and pin her to the bed, holding her there. He turns over, resting his weight on her and shuddering as her legs come up around him. His mouth goes straight for her breasts, tongue lapping at one brown nipple and sucking hard on it the way she likes. She's dripping wet against his dick, but he wants to make her come with his fingers first. Maybe eat her out if she's good and stops being in such a fucking hurry.

She refuses to stay still, hands laced through his hair, tugging hard when he bites down and making little gasping sounds. He gets one hand down between them, and spreads her open with his fingers, finding her clit already stiff and throbbing. She wails when he rubs it, taking her right hand off his head to cover his on her cunt and urge him into a firmer, faster rhythm. Tiny, slim, fingers wrapped around his, showing him how she likes it, and he has to kiss her again, loves the way she pants against his mouth.

It's barely a few moments before she tightens around him, leg hitched over his hip and shivering hard. Her pupils are completely blown-out, hair fanning out over the bed, and oh fuck, her mouth. Red and wet and probably amazing wrapped around his dick. Yeah, definitely amazing, as she tugs his hand up to her mouth and sucks herself off his skin. She attempts to flip them, pin him to the bed where she'll probably try and fuck him, but he pins her down, wrists and hips and legs.

She works herself along the length of his dick, soft and wet, begging for it. "I want to fuck, Sam, stop fucking teasing."

"No," he says, winding a coil of hair in his fist and pulling, yanking her head to the side and letting her growl. "Not until I taste you. Wanna see if you're secretly as sweet as I think you are."

"I'll save you the trouble, I'm not," she says, and proves it, kissing and biting her way into his mouth. She's right, she's tart and bitter, but Sam's never met a woman he didn't enjoy going down on, or fail to make enjoy it as well.

He pulls away. "C'mon, Fi, you know you're curious. Let me live up to the hype."

She sighs, like she's actually sacrificing something by agreeing, but tugs at where his hands are restraining her. "All _right_. Let me up, dammit."

It only takes the barest loosening of his grip, and she's free. He's expecting her to straddle his head - Michael doesn't quite kiss and tell, but enough mentions of Fiona almost crushing his head between her legs and Sam's fairly sure which positions she favors - and she does. Just, backward, and he has to laugh at the impatient arch of her back as she rests one hand on his thigh and the other on the bed. Her hair brushes against his cock, and he shivers, running nails over her thighs in retaliation.

One high, ringing gasp, and he smiles, pulling her hips down and burying his mouth in her cunt. He loves this and he's good at it, and if he has to keep at it for days, he's going to make Fiona Glennane scream his name. Those rapid gasps are a good start, sliding into a steady moan as he runs his tongue along her folds, dipping shallowly into her opening. He almost chokes as she closes her mouth around his dick, sucking hard and slow from base to tip, and oh, he'd forgotten how much fun this could be.

Because the meth is amping everything up to eleven - the heat and suction of her mouth, the flicker of her tongue at the tip of his dick, the salt of her wetness flooding his mouth, the trembling in her thighs above him - and right now, Ruiz and a hundred guys could come in, and Sam would just tell them to get in line and watch. Fiona and what she's doing to him are more important, especially when she begins a low hum that makes him swear and pull away from her cunt.

"Turn around," he rasps out, and she laughs. "Turn the fuck around, Fiona."

She whines a little, shimmying her hips above his face and licking a long stripe down his dick. "You're not having fun anymore, Sam? You wanted to eat me out and now you're complaining."

"Not complaining," he grits out, grabbing at her hair before she hums against him again and makes him come. She growls as he catches hold of it, locking her in place. "Slow the fuck down, or you won't get to fuck me."

"Who says I want to fuck you?"

She's trying to sound angry, but the way she's flexing her hips, arching her back? All she's doing is telling him how much she wants it.

"You did, back when I finger-fucked that tight pussy of yours. Got you begging for it and everything." He leans up, flicks his tongue against her clit and takes one hand off her hair to slide it into her. She cries out, "please, please", and opens wider for a second and third finger. "Yeah, just like that. Telling me you don't want my dick in you?"

"Jesus, you have a filthy mouth," she groans. "Anyone ever told you that?"

"Well, considering you're what's on it right now-"

She abruptly reverses position, swinging a leg over his head, moving downward and straddling him. Her hands are bracing herself on his chest, and he can just catch hold of her hips before she arches up, teasing the head of his dick with her wet pussy. He thinks there's something he should be remembering, but she sinks down, and takes him halfway in, so his brain stutters to a stop.

Fuck, she's got a rhythm now - tease, halfway in, squeeze, all the way, squeeze, pull out - and it's good, it's fucking great, but it's not enough. He can tell she's enjoying the tease, but she won't come like this. Too much effort, and he leans forward, takes her nipple into his mouth and sucks until she shouts and loses focus.

"Sam, please, I need -"

"I know what you need. I've got you," he says, giving a little twist of his hips when she hits a downstroke. "Want it on top, or switch?"

"Switch. I need to come again. Best way, if you're up for it."

He answers that by flipping them and pinning her to the bed, driving hard into her and loving the way her arms and legs have come up to clutch tight to his back. She gets loud like this, when she isn't plotting or manipulating, rough cries in a near scream. She's close, sweat pouring off her and an exhausted, desperate sheen to her eyes. It's been at least two hours since they were drugged, and it doesn't seem to have been a large dose. It is, however, enough to tweak both of their stamina levels, which is great now that they're fucking. He wasn't really looking forward to doing push-ups or jogging in circles around the little room.

Fi's nails are pretty much latched into his back, and it's good that Mrs. Reynolds dumped him after the incident with the Buick, because marks like these would have been fun to try and explain away. He's seen Michael's back after a night with Fi before, and while he never expected to feel the reality, he can sympathize with Mike a lot more now. She rakes downward, from his neck to his ass, and comes shotgun-quick around him.

She gets sweet after she's come a couple of times; kissing him a bit less desperately and with a bit more finesse. Stroking her hands up and down his back instead of scratching, moving slick against him. He's starting to lose track of everything but the feel of her against him, around him, under him; can't think about getting out of here or what they're going to do to Hernandez in retaliation for doping them or anything besides the pressing need to come. He hasn't fucked while high in a really long time. Drunk, yes, if he can toe the line between enough sobriety to get it up and enough intoxication to make it messy. But not high, not in a long time.

"Come on," Fi encourages, squeezing tight on every stroke. "Lose it for me, Sam."

His brain's going a million miles an hour but his ears and dick are working just fine. Like she's snapped her fingers, he comes for her, heart racing, balls drawn tight. He tries not to fall on top of her and topples ungracefully to the side. It's good, though, it gives him a great view of a very fucked-out Fiona Glennane. Golden hair all over the white sheets, petite frame sprawled against him, a low, contented hum.

She reaches up, hand wrapped in his cast-off shirt, and punches hard at the shelf above the bed. The cheap metal pops off on one side, and he brushes her hand aside, giving the shelf a sharp tug to get it off completely. They'll be able to use the metal to pick the lock on the door and as an improvised weapon, along with his gold chain.

He looks down at her. "Think you've got enough energy to kick a little cartel ass?"

Her smile is pure evil. "Oh, I'm good for a little action, then round two. What do you think, car sex before we wire this place with C4?"

Sam's day is suddenly looking up. Sex, Fiona, and explosives - not bad for a "domestic call".


End file.
